


First Snow

by sowell



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-13 02:36:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/818963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sowell/pseuds/sowell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mom is gone, and the Impala is in a snow bank. Way, way pre-series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Snow

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the following insmallpackages wish: Ficlet, SPN, Sam and Dean or Sam/Dean, seasonal memories (doesn't have to be schmoopy but can be!).

The car is rocking. Every once in a while Dad gives it a shove, and it jostles Dean around on the leather seats. He holds on tighter to Sammy and makes sure not to move him around too much.  
  
The radio is on, and there’s heat blasting from the front seat. Dean doesn’t know the song that’s playing, but he knows it’s a Christmas song. There’s only Christmas music on the radio right now; Dad had searched around all day for something else and then finally turned the music off with a curse, like he was mad at Christmas.  
  
The shovel thunks methodically against the front wheels of the car. It’s not the first time they’ve gotten stuck in a snow drift, but it’s the first time since.... Dean’s mind shuts down rapidly. Dad shoves, and the car rocks. Dean curls around Sammy and presses his face into Sam’s flannel blanket.  
  
“There’s usually presents,” Dean whispers. “And we used to get a tree. But we have to drive now.”  
  
Dad says Sammy won’t remember any of this because he’s too little. Not Mom, not snowdrifts, not annoying Christmas songs or sliding around the back seat of the Impala. Dean’s not so sure, though. Sammy isn’t asleep, and usually when he’s not asleep he’s crying or burping or puking or farting. Right now he’s just blinking at Dean, though, squished between the seat back and Dean’s curled body. Maybe babies like Christmas songs?  
  
The door opens and Dad climbs back in. He presses the gas. There’s a horrible squealing noise and the vibration of the engine under Dean’s shoulder, but the car doesn’t move. Dad swears again and gets back out.  
  
Dean looks at Sam. Samuel. Sammy. Sammy has three names, and Dean only has one. Dad hasn’t called him Deano since the fire. Sammy blinks at him, eyes big and clear and awake in the dark car. Outside, the snow is still falling. Dean wonders if the shoveling is doing anything at all. Maybe the holes are just filling up again, and they’ll never get free. Maybe they’ll have to spend Christmas here in the Impala, with the heat and the Christmas carols and the clumps of white sticking to the windows.  
  
“You don’t know,” Dean says. “You’re just a baby. But there are really scary monsters, and one of them killed Mom. And we have to drive so Dad can kill the rest of them. So it’s okay to miss Christmas. Next year they’ll probably all be dead, and then we can have presents again.”  
  
Dean touches Sam’s little fingers, and Sam grabs on, squeezing. He’s really strong. Stronger than most babies, Dean thinks, although he’s not really sure. Sammy’s the only baby he knows.  
  
“It’s okay,” he says again. Sammy keeps holding on, and Dean closes his eyes, lulled by the darkness and the heat and Sam’s baby-smell.  
  
The door opens again, and there’s a wash of cold air. The engine growls, the wheels squeal and…the car moves. It jets backwards, and Dean almost rolls off the seat.  
  
His dad whoops, and it’s the happiest sound Dean’s heard him make in a long time.  
  
“See that?” Dad asks, twisting around to look at Dean. “Nothing to it.” Dean smiles and nods.  
  
“Who’s the man?” Dad says, grin wide and goofy.  
  
“You,” Dean says softly.  
  
“Okay,” Dad says. “Thirty miles to go. You gonna make it, bud?”  
  
Dean nods again, but he’s suddenly tired.  
  
“How’s Sammy?”  
  
“He’s awake,” Dean says. “I think he wants me to stay back here.”  
  
Dad’s eyes find him in the rearview mirror, and Dean realizes he’s tired too, despite the laughter. He’s smiling, but his face still looks sad.  
  
“Okay,” Dad says after a minute. “Okay. Wear the belt, though.”  
  
Dean squirms around, trying to get the seat belt to fit around both him and Sammy. The metal digs into his back, but Dean’s too tired to care. The Christmas music is still going on the radio.  
  
Dad flashes him a thumbs-up when he gets all buckled in, and Dean gives him one back.  
  
“Let’s do this,” Dad says. The Impala starts to roll forward, steady and slow on the snowy road. Dean closes his eyes.  
  
He feels Dad’s hand touch his back as they drive, move up to his shoulder and squeeze. “Merry Christmas, Deano,” he says.  
  
The car carries them along, and Dean sleeps.


End file.
